


Hey, Pretty

by AndreaLyn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You let baby chemists play with your blood, Arthur, and they’ve contaminated it.”</i> Cobb warned Eames about this, but he didn't listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey, Pretty

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks greatly to ceitfanna for the beta.

There are three strange messages on his mobile phone when he arrives back from a quick job in Kyoto. The first is from Miles with his monthly plea that Eames drops by Paris to host a lecture on the art of perception in dreams and how malleable it can be. The second is a confusing message from Cobb (Ariadne stubbornly struggling to be heard in the background. She is Cobb’s constant shadow since she accepted a teaching position at his side) who talks about a new batch of chemists and some training session with Arthur and...

Eames forwards to the last message. He’s already bored.

The third is from Arthur. It’s comprised of five words, but they’re enough to make Eames go back to that strange second message and treat it seriously.

“Eames. I’m coming for you.” 

Eames has _never_ heard such low and sultry tones coming from Arthur outside of one of his waking fantasies. He hadn’t even been convinced the man’s vocal cords would allow him to sound so sinfully debauched, but now he has living proof. Firstly, he knows he’s never going to delete this message (for personal and private reasons, of course). 

Secondly, Cobb’s message begins to make sense.

* * *

“Hello, Mr. Eames.”

It’s all the warning he gets before he hits the linoleum floor of his safe house apartment. Distantly, Eames hears his keys skittering to the ground. The last thing he sees is a pair of perfectly shined Crockett & Jones shoes before he loses consciousness to whatever blow he’s taken to the back of his head.

He really should have known that there is no precaution one can take when the person hunting after you knows you inside and out.

* * *

When he wakes, blood is trickling down his forehead. He’s bound to a rickety old chair with ropes tied tightly enough to keep him bound, but not so much that he can’t escape. Eames’ head remains fuzzy and he could really do with a drink to numb away a degree of the maelstrom pounding in his head. He begins work on the knots, careful not to jostle and give any signal that he’s attempting escape. Why, he wonders, did he not listen to Cobb?

Well, fine, perhaps his past track record is good enough cause to be wary, but if he’d simply left the country, he might not be in this warehouse.

“Eames.”

“There’s my captor,” Eames replies, mock-cheer mixing with derision as he slides his thumb through the knot and loosens it all-the-more. “Where are we, then?” It’s half the darkness and half the fault of the likely concussion he’s dealing with that gives him hesitation as to what he ought to do next. Another tug and the ropes are loose enough to let slip.

He keeps them on. 

Eames doesn’t get a response. He merely begins to feel like prey as his predator stalks forward with something in hand that glints in the dull light, catching the last rays of sun through one of the stained pre-war windows. “Dream or reality?” he specifies, if that’s how they’re going to play this. 

“Paris.”

“That’s not what I asked, Arthur,” Eames chides. Arthur steps forward and Eames can clearly see that those are handcuffs. “I see the ropes were only meant to be temporary?”

“We both know that you can’t be bound for too long.”

“If anyone was capable of binding me permanently, I do think it’d be you,” Eames replies, trying to keep his tone light. It’s difficult to keep his cheerful façade in place, what with the dangerous look on Arthur’s face, his current situation, and the fact that his head wound is bleeding sluggishly down his face. Admiration for Arthur or not, these are not Eames’ ideal flirting conditions. “Cobb says you’ve lost your mind.”

“Cobb doesn’t see the irony in that statement.”

“Yusuf sent me samples of the drug,” Eames fights to enunciate his words as they begin to bleed together. He fears that consciousness is going to evade him soon and there isn’t a doubt in heart or mind that when he next wakes (whether dream or reality), those cuffs will frame his wrists. “You let baby chemists play with your blood, Arthur, and they’ve contaminated it.”

Eames has never actually been frightened of Arthur before. The man is terrifying, but Eames has always known how to control him with a well-placed barb here, a quick show of intelligence to disarm him there, or simply calling back to his days with the military.

The way Arthur stares at him now, Eames experiences true fear of a man who he believed to have too many rules to truly be dangerous.

He really shouldn’t be fascinated by the fact.

“I’ve never been clearer about what I want,” Arthur says, so close that his breath warms Eames’ cheek. He hears the tell-tale _clack_ of the handcuffs as Arthur secures them around his wrist and finally, Eames releases the rope that hadn’t been doing much of anything. Arthur nudges at Eames’ knees, setting them apart and standing in the space in-between as he presses his body to Eames’ torso and secures the other wrist. That hungry look in Arthur’s eyes has yet to dissipate and Eames realizes where his fear lies.

For the first time in his whole life, he can’t read Arthur.

He doesn’t know what Arthur wants of him, but he can only imagine there are two scenarios that can be achieved when they’re starting the way they are.

It’s the last thought he has before Arthur applies pressure to the wound, bending over to brush a hard kiss to Eames’ forehead before delivering a blunt blow that knocks him out once more.

* * *

The next time Eames comes to, he finds that he’s been moved. They’re no longer in the warehouse and Eames doesn’t think that there’s anyone _here_ with him. He tries to listen for the telltale sign of breathing or someone’s shoes scraping against the floor in movement, but there is nothing.

In addition to all that nothing, Eames finds that his head doesn’t hurt half as much as it ought to. He’d reach upwards to test the wound, but he is still handcuffed. The pair is different – somewhat looser, though not loose enough to get free – and each wrist is securely bound to a rather strong-looking headboard.

He is also naked.

Eames rattles his chains hard enough to make the bed shake, struggling against his situation as he puts his mind to work. He’s a veteran of self-preservation and making his way out of even the tightest situations with his life intact. In any _normal_ situation, he’d play to Arthur’s weaknesses, but he’s dreadfully realizing what those inexperienced chemists did to Arthur’s blood.

It must have stripped away something and as the fog in his mind clears, Eames begins to suspect that it’s his inhibitions falling fast and loose and away. It means that he’s either about to get very lucky or very murdered. 

There’s a frightened part of his mind that points out that it could be both.

Eames gives a frustrated huff, quickly scanning through his contacts to establish which of them might notice that he’s gone. Yusuf is waiting for Eames to get back to him (about Arthur, no less), but he’s been ducking Cobb and Ariadne. There’s a chance that some of his regular clients might call for him, but they’re unlikely to come looking for him. They’ll likely be glad if Arthur wipes out the blot of his illegal activities.

Somewhere nearby, a door closes gently.

“Honey, I’m home,” Eames murmurs wryly as he curls his fingers tightly, fingertips skimming over the cool of the metal. The room is being kept just below room temperature, the lights dim, and the windows are kept closed. Eames has no manner of knowing how much time has passed and thus, they could be anywhere in the world. Eames laughs under his breath. He can’t read Arthur, but Arthur never stopped being able to read him. 

He’s taken control out of his hands, removed the possibility of contingency plans by removing the information. Carefully, Eames concentrates on his appearance in an effort to see if he can see a ripple in his form and establish whether he’s dreaming or not.

No matter what’s happened to Arthur, he cannot take this totem away from him.

There are footsteps up stairs now – stairs, he’s beginning to get a picture of the place, though Eames doubts that Arthur would take him somewhere that he’s seen before -- and a presence outside the bedroom door. They’re not in a dream, Eames has established that much, but that doesn’t leave him with much information. 

Patiently, he waits. 

Eames has never felt shame in regards to his body. He’s made a practice of finding beauty in all forms and takes certain care to keep himself in shape, perhaps a lingering habit leftover from his days in her majesty’s service, but it allows him to casually relax on the bed, his cuffed wrists keeping his torso on an angle of display. 

“Eames,” Arthur greets as he enters the bedroom, slipping off his suit jacket on the back of a dilapidated wooden chair. He keeps Eames in his peripheral vision as he takes confident, slow strides at the foot of the bed while deft fingers loosen his tie. “Cobb says you had fair warning. You didn’t run.”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” Eames replies, following Arthur’s every move as if he’s magnetic. “You’ve never particularly frightened me before.”

“Well,” Arthur says, smiling like he knows the ins and out of a particularly funny secret. “That’s always been your issue, Mr. Eames. You lack a view of the bigger picture.”

“I think you’ll find the bigger picture is hard to see when handcuffed to a bed, Arthur,” Eames replies tartly, wiggling his left wrist. It jangles against the wood and --

… _interesting_. Arthur’s lips soften almost imperceptibly and his attention slides down Eames’ body before lifting back to his face. It’s blink and you’d miss it, but Eames has spent the last decade of his life noticing those moments. 

It’s enough to get a laugh out of him. Eames is starting to understand what this is about and as Arthur’s desires take shape, Eames finds that he’s ready to court this dangerously risky idea and pay the price for it later. He stretches his legs out to elongate the line of his body, affecting a pout that’s far more mocking than sensual. 

“This is what you’ve been coming for? You’ve been coming after me,” Eames says, taking sheer delight in the simplicity of this. “Arthur. You only needed to ask.”

“I don’t think you understand what’s going to happen here,” Arthur says, cocking his head to one side. His fingers hover above the buttons of his waistcoat and a dangerous smile lingers on his lips. “You’re not giving me anything, Eames. I’m taking what I want. I told you that I’m coming for you and now I have you. I get to do whatever I want.”

Eames curls his lip with disgust, trying to hide the pleasure he takes from Arthur’s words.

Unfortunately, given his current clothing situation, he can’t hide much.

Arthur’s waistcoat is loosened by the time he notices. He ducks his head, hiding a smug smile as he bends over to untie each of his shoes with delicate care. Eames wonders if the silence is meant for him to hear how ragged his breathing grows with every passing second and every additional thought that flickers through his mind, laying out each and every possibility in vivid, stark, and wonderfully flexible detail. 

“At this point, ‘whatever you want’ appears to be untying your shoes. You’d make an absolutely terrible director in pornography, Arthur,” he hums his disappointment, drawing Arthur’s name out into practically two separate syllables. “Unless those laces are coming out to do particularly naughty things to my throat…?”

Arthur doesn’t respond, but Eames has managed to paint himself a very enticing picture. 

The waistcoat falls atop the jacket, the shoes tucked under those rotting pieces of wood holding a chair barely together. Eames abandons the notion that anything he says or does can speed up this process and he feels as though if he lets slip how very keen on the idea he is, he’s going to end up punished.

Eames can’t decide whether he wants the whip or the carrot first.

Arthur divests himself of his trousers and Eames thinks he’s going to play the situation by ear – give Arthur whatever he thinks he wants and not think about the morning after. 

Eames realizes he’ll have his fair share of reminders as soon as Arthur reaches out, grip on Eames’ neck so tight that he begins to go lightheaded. The bruises will linger, most certainly, and Eames lets out a spluttered breath as he fights for air, each moment of fighting only earning a tighter grip. The moment that Eames thinks he’s going to pass out, Arthur’s grip eases off, sliding down his torso. 

There’s nothing kind about the way that Arthur roughly strokes him, neither is there any kindness in Arthur’s eyes. 

Eames bites back Arthur’s name on his lips. Any glimmer of a weak spot will be akin to feeding himself to the very hungry wolf looming over him.

He needs to think ahead. There is a limit to how much pleasure can be had when there is the threat of the unknown in trained killers’ hands. Yusuf is expecting contact the next morning. Eames wonders if he can make it to that check-in so that the troops can be rallied, so to speak. He also wonders if the little concoction to fix Arthur’s dilemma will be complete by then.

“Say something,” Arthur demands, gripping Eames by the hips as he works lube onto his fingers, reaching up to unlock the handcuffs – presumably to flip Eames onto his stomach, but it’s a _chance_. 

“I didn’t get the script, Arthur,” Eames replies drolly, flickering through his possibilities. He could overpower Arthur. For all that they come from a similar background, Eames has the advantage in total breadth of his body. He could overpower him, get a sense of the situation, and run. 

With no clothes, of course, needing time to identify the surroundings that Arthur is already keenly aware of, and with no actual solution present. Eames locks eyes with Arthur and makes his decision. The devil you know…

Eames lets his body go slack when Arthur pushes him against the bed, losing his line of sight. The handcuffs are quickly put back on his wrists and Arthur begins to make his way over the map of Eames’ forearms and biceps, biting kisses giving way to slow and languid marks being made. 

_This_ is certainly not what Eames expected.

He arches his hips forward, pushed against cotton sheets as Arthur pushes three slick fingers into his arse with no warning. Eames refuses to give him what he wants, staying silent. Arthur may have lost hold of his inhibitions, but Eames isn’t about give up on his dignity. 

“You’ve always had the most distracting ass,” Arthur murmurs, which Eames thinks is a little ironic coming from _Arthur_ of all people.

Eames wishes he could see this. He can feel the warmth of Arthur’s breath on the small of his back and, cruelly and utterly likely on purpose, he’s been left with nothing but his imagination to do the work for him.

Arthur’s lips, likely a touch wet from running his tongue over them, are so very close, and Eames wonders whether Arthur intends to take him apart by way of pink lips and a clever little tongue or whether he’s going to tease and torture. 

“Am I going to have to beg?” Eames asks, when nothing changes. Three fingers up his arse, Arthur’s lips near his hip, and all his question earns is a fourth finger. He doesn’t swear, but he doesn’t manage silence. He hisses sharply, biting back a guttural moan.

“That’s more like it. You never shut up when I’m around. You _delight_ in it.”

_True_ , but it’s what they do and it’s what they like. Well, at least, it’s what Eames likes. He’s selfish that way. He gets the feeling he’s not going to get his way tonight, not unless he plays his cards extremely well. 

“Arthur,” Eames murmurs, pitching his voice down a little lower. Arthur’s the smartest man that he knows outside of the Cobbs and has known him just as long. He’s going to be aware of every trick that he has up his sleeves.

Lucky for him, then, that Arthur has no idea what Eames is capable of in the bedroom. 

“Arthur, nice as your fingers are, don’t you want to find out what it feels like with your cock buried in me?” he asks. “I can’t even see you, so I won’t get the satisfaction of your reaction. I’ll have to live with my imagining of the moment. You’ll have knowledge that I won’t ever possess.”

“You’re right,” is all Arthur says.

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Maybe you should shut up.”

Soon, Eames is so slick that there isn’t even the chance for friction, but there’s a moment of hesitation. Without his vision, Eames isn’t sure why that is, but an optimistic part of him can’t help but hope that maybe Arthur’s senses are coming back to him and Yusuf’s belief that the drug would wear off is coming true.

“Arthur?” Eames coaxes, spreading his legs wider. “Arthur, is this some new kind of torture?”

The hesitation ends with Arthur’s hand clamped over his mouth and though relief ought to be the farthest thing from Eames’ mind, he still feels it. Arthur splays his fingers over Eames’ lips and he takes the hint, reverently parting his lips to suck the fingertips, a tease and a promise if Arthur would only let him loose.

Then, when Eames has given up the ghost – so to speak – Arthur pushes into him, cock deep into Eames’ arse, momentarily ridding him of every last thought lingering in his mind. 

There is nothing but _Arthur_ and pain and delight and sheer shock that he’s doing this.

He’s going to hate himself in the morning, but Eames has to hope that his guttural cries of pleasure will stay in Arthur’s mind forever – something so impossible to shake that Arthur will _dream_ of it until the day he dies.

“Arthur,” Eames gasps past Arthur’s hand, tensing both hands into fists, the handcuffs clanging against the headboards as Arthur takes what he wants, set his own pace, and thinks little to nothing of Eames below him. This is an entirely selfish act, but Eames can’t find it in him to care.

Arthur’s cock pushes into him, he waits, pauses, and then pushes even deeper. Each thrust makes the muscles in his body scream in protest, but Eames fights the ache and the signals given to his brain. Fingers clenched to the palm of his fist, he refuses to break. He moans Arthur’s name once more, showing only pleasure and none of the pain.

“Shut up, Eames,” he commands.

“No,” he breathes out, because he knows what Arthur wants. He wants the fight; he’s _always_ wanted the fight. 

“Then,” is the last thing Eames can coherently remember hearing that night, “I’m not fucking you hard enough.”

* * *

When Eames wakes in the morning, he has not been unlocked from his captivity. The sheets around him are still sticky with come and his body is in much the same state. He remains in this den of sin and he is alone. 

He remains that way for another three hours. 

His salvation arrives in the form of Dominic Cobb. Unexpected, but appreciated, Eames flexes his fingers when he is finally unlocked from his temporary prison. Cobb averts his gaze and directs him to the bathroom where there is a set of clothing waiting for him in addition to a shower and shaving kit. 

Even when he’s through showering, he smells of Arthur. 

“I warned you,” Cobb says when Eames resembles a dignified human being once more.

Eames smirks as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. “I didn’t believe you. Besides, aren’t I still in one piece?”

“He’s not.”

“Right,” Eames says, running his fingers through his hair. “Which café is he brooding at melodramatically?”

Cobb writes down the address and presses it into Eames’ waiting palm. “Fix this,” he commands and Eames would be amused at the thought that he’d ever take such firm orders, but for the fact that he would follow _any_ order for Arthur’s sake – not that he’d ever let the man actually know that. Eames has to keep some secrets close to the vest.

Eames gives Arthur another ten minutes to stew in whatever self-loathing and guilt must be swarming him before finding his way to the café and purchasing two cups of black coffee. She sets them both in front of Arthur, busying himself with the twiddling of his thumbs. 

Idly crossing his legs, Eames adjusts his position in the chair, the pain of sitting in such a position sending clear reminders every few moments of what transpired the night before, but Eames has been trained under far worse methods of torture and will endure until Arthur is willing to speak. 

“What do you want, Eames?” Arthur finally breaks, but not fully. There’s no eye contact and still a residual note of self-defeat in the tone.

“One night’s access to all the most famous museums in Europe and their security systems turned off,” he jokes. “I’d settle for you looking me in the eye.”

He gets that. It’s loaded with all that plucky defiance that Arthur has in spades. As if out of sheer stubbornness, he holds that gaze and refuses to look away. “I don’t want to hear a dozen excuses about what the chemistry of the somnacin did to me,” he says. “And I don’t need absolution.”

“Cobb made me come,” Eames says, stifling the smirk on his lips and the _desperate_ need to add ‘which was quite the feat after how many times you did’, but he does manage. Barely. “He wants to make sure you’re fine. I don’t think he’d believe me unless I came and checked. Do him a favour and call,” he says, leaning forward and rapping his knuckles lightly on the table. “As for the business between you and me, I’m not offering you absolution.”

“No?”

“No,” Eames assures, scribbling out an address on Arthur’s napkin, numbers intertwined with the coffee stains. “More like…an encore,” he shapes the word with delight. “I’ll be there for the next week if you’re in the mood to repeat last night’s events. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll find us a job to work so you can work out any lingering personal demons you might have by shooting projections in the face.”

Eames rises to his feet, brushing the front of his shirt off to shake out any wrinkles from sitting down.

“Just because you’re all better doesn’t mean we can’t ever have fun,” Eames promises with a wink and a grin, turning away without bothering to see if Arthur’s looked at the napkin in front of him. 

He’d rather have the surprise.

Arthur has been getting so very good at them, after all.


End file.
